


Refusing to Give up Tomorrow

by TorScrawls



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Divergence - Episode: e160 The Eye Opens (The Magnus Archives), Canon-Typical Horror, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), Still, of sorts, spoilers up until episode 160
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-16 19:27:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28961700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TorScrawls/pseuds/TorScrawls
Summary: They are finally free. Far away from London and with a small victory at their back they feel indestructible.Safefor the first time in years.Or as free as they could be with Jon still shaking when he hasn’t read  a statement in a while and with Martin doing his best to keep himself together. But they had time to sort all of that out....Right?
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 16
Kudos: 135





	1. Chapter 1

Martin was unpacking. Or as much as one could be unpacking the three relatively small bags they had brought with them to the safehouse. But considering that they contained almost all of the possessions that both of them had left, Martin went about the activity with careful diligence. And besides, they had both silently agreed to go through the motions of a normal vacation; resolutely clinging to each and every sense of familiarity and comfort they could find. So Martin found himself unpacking their bags while Jon was putting away their foodstuffs in the kitchen.

Martin opened a bag and was met with fabric. Ah, this was the bag containing their admittedly small collection of clothes. Martin started digging through it, but stopped when his hand came into contact with something hard. He frowned as he slowly extracted his hand. If working at the institute had taught him anything, it was that extra caution was never a waste— _especially_ in situations that at first glance didn't seem to demand it.

Martin carefully parted the clothes and saw something white and long hidden in the folds of a sweater. It was fairly thin and as he leaned in closer to get a better look he saw that it was slightly bent. It almost reminded him of—

With a start Martin realized what it was.

A _bone_.

There was a damn bone in their bag.

Martin snatched his hand back and immediately tried to think of when they had let their guard down enough for someone to slip something into their luggage. Had someone sent it with them as a warning? Was someone going to come after them? Was it a _human_ bone?

"Jon," Martin winced at the shrill quality to his voice and cleared his throat before asking, in an admirably calm tone _thank you very much_ , "I found something in the bag."

"Hm?" Jon peeked into the room from the small kitchen, "Everything okay?"

Martin gingerly picked up the bone—using a t-shirt so that he didn't have to touch it—and held it so that Jon could see. "This was in the bag."

Jon took a few steps into the room as he squinted at the bone. "Oh! That's my rib."

It was said in the same tone of voice someone would use to comment on a particularly boring book.

Martin dropped it. "Your— What?!"

Jon looked at him as if he was the one who was being incomprehensible. "My rib. Really Martin, are you okay?"

Martin ignored the question in favor of continuing to stare at Jon in disbelief. "What is one of your ribs doing in the bag _meant for clothes_?"

Jon made a face of disgust. "Well, I couldn't very well leave it at the institute. Who _knows_ what would have happened to it then."

Martin couldn't really argue with that.

He took a deep breath and looked back down at the white bone. Did he really want to know? "But why is it…" Martin gestured uselessly. "You know… Outside?"

Jon frowned at him in confusion before his eyebrows lifted in realization. "Outside me, you mean?"

Martin nodded mutely.

"Well…" Jon gave a short and slightly uneasy laugh. "You remember the coffin?" Martin nodded again, how could he forget? The fear as he realized what Jon had done. _Where_ he had gone. The very real possibility that he might never find his way back out again.

"I needed something to focus on to find my way back. An anchor of sorts." Jon shrugged, not quite meeting Martins eyes. "I figured that a part of my own body would be best. Not that the rib seemed to work that well anyway." His voice trailed off as he continued, "If it hadn't been for those…"

He frowned and looked down at the floor, quiet in the way that meant he was thinking. Martin let him, still half-stuck in the fear of the past. After a few seconds Jon looked back up, meeting his eyes as he spoke, "I never asked… The tape recorders. That was you, wasn't it?"

Martin froze. "I—" It had been a moment of weakness; a shameful step away from his goal at the time, almost jeopardizing everything he had worked so hard to accomplish. But as with almost all of their choices since they had started working in the archives, it had been made out of fear; Martin hadn't been there for Jon, hadn't been there for a while at that point and he had been so sure that he had missed his chance to say goodbye, he would never again see Jon's face, hear his voice, never get the chance to hold him, never tell him how he really felt—

But that hadn't happened, _would_ never happen, and he no longer had to keep his distance. What had earlier been an act of weakness and something he would have denied doing without hesitation was now and act of desperate hope in their darkest moments—and it had _worked_. He could be open and honest and didn't have to hide. Didn't have to be _alone._ The sheer relief of therealization hit like a train. Martin felt something cold roll down his cheek and realized that he was crying and as he opened his mouth to answer, or to try and explain, only a ragged sob escaped.

Jon made a soft sound of distress as he crossed the small space between them and took a hold of Martin's hands, holding them tight. When he spoke it was in the gentle voice that Martin had dubbed his _affectionate_ voice, no trace of the usual cold professionalism. "Oh, Martin. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked, It's okay. You're okay. I'm sorry."

Martin shook his head, managed a wet, "No, it's fine," before he took a ragged breath, gripped Jon's hands hard and continued, "Yes, it was me"

"How did—" Jon paused and Martin distantly realized that Jon's hands were shaking slightly in his grasp," How did you know that it would work?"

Martin swallowed. "I didn't. But I couldn't just— just sit and do nothing. Not—" Martin took a steadying breath, "not when I knew there was a good chance that I wouldn't see you, see both of you, again."

Jon let go of Martin's hands, but before Martin had the time to do much more than let out a small distressed sound at the sudden loss of contact, he was dragged into a tight hug. Jon pressed himself close and pushed his head into the crook of Martin's neck, breathing out a "Thank you" against his skin.

It was more than enough to set him crying again.

Jon held on as Martin broke down, a comforting presence that was _there_ and _real_ and _warm_.

After a while, Martin managed a shaky, "I'm—I'm sorry I wasn't there. That must have been awful. And I just left you to—"

He broke off into another sob and Jon shushed him before answering in a voice that was just as shaky, "No, no. You saved us. Thank you."

Martin didn't have the words raised his hands and grabbed hold of Jon's back, returning the hug with as much strength as he dared as Jon gripped him back.

They stood like that until Martin's tears had dried up and the whole thing started to feel slightly embarrassing. He cleared his throat, gave a forced laugh and said in a hesitant voice, "Sorry about that."

Jon shook his head. "You don’t have to apologize."

Martin smiled and squeezed him tighter. And it wasn't until that moment that he realized that his arms where circling right around Jon's ribcage. Where his _rib_ had been until not that long ago. He immediately loosened his grip with a panicked, "Oh, god, I'm sorry! Does it hurt? I'm so sorry!"

"It's fine," Jon mumbled against his shoulder as he pressed closer again. "The pros far outweigh the cons in this case."

"I don't want to hurt you!" Martin exclaimed as he grabbed Jon's shoulder to push him away slightly, not fully ready to give up the warmth and the contact completely.

Jon frowned as he tried to pull Martin closer again, but Martin held firm and Jon quickly gave up; allowing his arms to fall to his sides as he muttered, "It doesn't hurt, per say."

Martin gave an incredulous laugh. "That's not as reassuring as you might think it is."

"No, I mean it! It's more… weird than painful. Just something missing." At Martin's skeptical look he hurried to add, "Really it's fine! No lies, remember? It healed up very quickly."

Martin let out a long breath and allowed his head to sink down to rest on top of Jon's. "Yes, yes, alright."

Jon raised a hand to pat him on the back. "I guess being a monster can be good for some things."

"You're not a monster, Jon." The rebuttal came automatically; a well-worn argument. Jon took his chance to pull Martin back into a hug and Martin decided that now was not the time to push this. _Again_.

Instead he relaxed against Jon and allowed his hands to travel up and down the other's back, feeling along his ribs and shuddering as he came across the undeniable gap where there was something missing. Jon squirmed slightly and Martin muttered an apology as he placed his hands on his smaller back instead.

As far as Martin was concerned, Jon's apparent ability to heal almost any wound was one of the few good things that had come out of all of this. Especially considering everything that Jon had had to go through. The man's skin had become a roadmap of all the fears; an encyclopedia in and of itself. It was almost fitting, in a macabre sort of way, that the archivist himself was an archive of sorts.

Martin shook his head to dispel those particular thoughts, but they had brought up an interesting point; he thought about the placement of the missing rib and frowned. "I'm pretty sure you don't have a scar there. How did you.. get it out?"

"Oh… You know Jared?"

"Jared _Hopworth_? The _Boneturner_?!" Martin couldn't keep the alarm from his voice as he pulled back from Jon again to see his face.

Jon looked away guiltily, "Well, yes…"

"How did you convince him to help you? Last I saw him he wasn't really…" Martin thought back to the Flesh's attack on the institute, to Jared's mindless attacks and how he hadn't cared when he was stabbed again and again and again. He shuddered as he finished with a weak, "…up for a chat."

"I kind of… paid him? I got one rib and he got one." Jon laughed. "It was all very fair, considering."

Martin gaped at him. "You _gave_ the _Boneturner_ one of you ribs?"

Jon hesitated slightly, the smile dying down, before he nodded. "I admit that I didn't have the time to think it through all the way… But it worked!" Jon smiled up at him. "Kind off. At least Daisy got out."

Martin took a deep breath, hating that somewhere along the line Jon had learnt that his own pain and fear didn't matter as long as he did something that benefitted others. Hating that he didn't know if he would have actually stopped him if he had known what Jon had planned to do with the coffin.

"That's so stupid. Even for you." Martin couldn't summon any real anger, only tired resignation in the face of Jon's near non-existent instincts of self-preservation. It had already happened and he couldn't do anything about it. All he could hope to do was to stop Jon from making such bad choices in the future. He felt a thrill run through him at the thought; they had a _future_ now.

Jon floundered for a second, stuck between indignation and shame, before seemingly taking a hard right and landing on a small smile as he said, almost mischievously "I promise that the next time I need a physical anchor before going into a fear dimension I will not use one of my own ribs?"

That startled a snort out of Martin and he smiled as he felt himself deflate, laughing softly at the ridiculousness that was the man in his arms. They had all the time in the world for _what if's_ and guilt and the past—because all of that was in _the past_ now— but for now they had earned some respite. "I'll take it." He nodded towards the bone lying on their bed. "Now what do we do with that?"

"I've noticed that it's surprisingly well-suited as a paperweight."

It was delivered in such a deadpan tone of voice that Martin couldn't help it; he burst out laughing. "A _paperweight?_ Really?"

He was rewarded a second later by Jon's lips tugging up into a small smile, accompanied by a soft chuckle. "I don't see why you react—"

"Bullshit you don't!" Martin cut him off with another laugh, pulling Jon back into a tight hug. For now, this was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I wrote this a year ago, but haven’t managed to finish it until recently so I’m very late to the party. This started out as a humorous short story but before I knew what was happening it had turned into whatever this is. As with everything I touch I can’t seem to keep the h/c and angst out…
> 
> A side note: my hc is that Jon doesn’t handle tight hugs that well after the Buried (and all the years where touch meant pain more often than not) but I felt like it would be too cruel to include it in this story. Especially considering what I have in store for him in later chapters…
> 
> Thanks again for reading and I hope you are having an okay day wherever you are!


	2. Chapter 2

The evening had started out great with a light drizzle gently tapping on the windows and Martin had been more than happy to curl up on the sofa with a good book and a cup of tea as Jon lay with his head in his lap and lazily filled out a crossword. Martin marveled at the domesticity of it all as he ran his hand through Jon’s hair, smiling as Jon gave a contented sigh and leaned into it. Who knew that life could be this… soft?  
  
Or, it had been as great as it could be with Jon feeling weak enough that filling out a crossword was about all he could manage.   
  
Jon felt bad. Of course he knew that Jon felt bad; they were hiding in a small cabin in Scotland, as far away from everything that had anything to do with statements, fear, the institute or anything else they tried not to think about.   
  
Martin thought about the box in the kitchen containing the statements from Basira. He was just about to ask Jon if maybe it was time to read one of them when Jon slowly sat up and said in a low, slightly shaky, voice, “I think I should… go into the kitchen.”  
  
Martin nodded sadly. He didn’t like the thought of Jon’s dependency on the statements and he knew that Jon liked it even less, but they were trying their best to stretch them out as much as they could. And after everything they had been through, neither of them had it in them to risk whatever might happen if they tried to stop the statements completely. Besides, everything is relative; what they had now was good compared to the last couple of years.  
  
Jon stood up on wobbly legs and Martin was halfway to standing to support him before Jon shook his head and held out a hand to stop him. “No, no, I’m fine. I’ll be right back.”  
  
So Martin sat back down again and kept his eyes trained on Jon as he made his shaky way over to the kitchen before closing the door after himself. He didn’t relax until he heard Jon rummage through the box on the table and start recording.  
  
He made a half-hearted attempt to start reading again but found himself unable to focus, opting instead to close his book and place it on the empty space on the sofa beside him.   
  
The rain had morphed into a thunderstorm almost without Martin noticing, but now—as he sat alone and stared down at his closed book beside him while listening to the mumbling from the kitchen, thoughtfully kept low so that the words didn’t reach Martin— it was hard to ignore.  
  
A sudden deafening thunder made Martin jump.   
  
“Christ!” He took a deep breath and got to his feet. After everything that had happened he wasn’t the biggest fan of loud and sudden noises, and he knew for a fact that Jon hated them. He knocked on the kitchen door. “Jon, did you hear that? It must have struck real close.”  
  
He didn’t get an answer, and Jon’s voice didn’t stop. Martin decided that he didn’t want to be alone in the living room any longer, and with all their talks about being there for each other and about priorities fresh in his mind he hesitantly opened the door.  
  
Martin tried not to listen to the statement that Jon was reading—only picking up on something about a lost dog —as he asked, “Jon? Did you hear the thunder?”   
  
Jon continued to read as if he hadn’t noticed him. Martin sucked in a breath as the unease boiled over into dread in a split second. _He can’t see me. I’m alone again._  
  
Martin was across the room and in front of Jon before he had fully made the conscious decision to move, desperately trying to calm his breathing. When had it become so strained? _It’s fine. I’m not stuck there anymore. I got out—we got out._  
  
“Jon? Hey Jon!” He snapped his fingers in front of Jon’s face but he didn’t so much as blink, just kept on reading in that same tone of voice that was his, but not entirely _his_ _own_. Martin sucked in a deep breath as he took in Jon’s empty stare and almost desperate hold on the statement in his hands.  
  
Relief, immediately followed by shame, coursed through him as he realized that it wasn’t on his end the problem laid, but with Jon.  
  
Jon tended to get a bit too absorbed in his statements lately, but it usually only took Martin a couple of tries before Jon snapped out of it. It was—in a bizarre sort of way a familiar sort of horrifying. He tried again, “Jon?”  
  
No reply.  
  
“Damn…” Martin muttered as he grabbed Jon by the shoulders and shook him. Hard.  
  
The never-ending stream of words came to a halt and Martin looked at Jon expecting annoyance at having been disturbed, but found nothing. His face was completely blank with eyes staring emptily at the page in his hands.  
  
“Jon?” A sudden fear rose in him that he had done something wrong, that he had somehow hurt Jon with his carelessness, with his stupidity, with his—  
  
“Ma—Martin?” Jon blinked and finally tore his eyes away from the page, focused on Martin’s own after only a slight struggle.  
  
Martin forced a smile. “There you are. Are you alright?”.  
  
“I’m fine,” Jon breathed out, still looking slightly lost, before giving his head a miniscule shake, clearing his throat and repeating in a stronger voice, “I’m fine.”  
  
Martin felt some of the tension drain out of him and he managed a genuine smile. At the same time he realized that he still held Jon’s shoulders in a hard grip. He released him with quick apology and sat down heavily on the chair beside him as he asked, "So…What happened?"  
  
Martin had a nagging feeling that he knew had happened, but he still had to ask. Still had to hold on to some small sliver of hope that they had managed to leave all the bad things in London—that they were both getting better.  
  
Jon was quick to say, "Nothing," and Martin frowned.   
  
"Hey. No more lies, right?"  
  
Jon opened his mouth, closed it again, and then slumped down in his chair. "Yeah, sorry. Sometimes it's hard to… Find my way back from a statement."  
  
Martin hummed. "I guessed that it was something like that." It had been harder and harder to get Jon to snap out of whatever trance he sometimes ended up in while reading statements and Martin knew that it bothered Jon even more than it bothered him. Which was saying something.  
  
Jon tilted sideways until he leaned against Martin, letting his head fall against his shoulder with a small sigh.  
  
Martin put an arm around him and pulled him closer. "Can I do something to help? If… if it happens again?"   
  
Martin felt Jon shift slightly against him as he shrugged. "I don't know."   
  
And that was the worst thing, wasn’t it? None of them knew just what might happen if Jon one day couldn’t stop reading, or if Martin accidentally hurt him when he tried to get him to stop. Or what it meant that Jon seemed to get more and more captured by the statements, even as they were no longer at the institute, or how long Basira would keep sending them packages, or how much of a human Jon still was…   
  
Martin broke the silence when the thought became too much, too overpowering. "I remember them being… somewhat captivating? But it's gotten worse, hasn’t it?" He knew that Jon was hesitant to talk about the parts that reminded them both that he wasn't strictly human anymore but they had decided that they _had to try_.  
  
Jon hesitated for a second before giving in with a low, "Yeah. Harder all the time."  
  
Martin couldn't completely hold back a soft sympathetic noise at that, even though it wasn’t at all surprising—he was the one having to try and rouse Jon from his statement-induced stupor lately. He offered the only thing he could. “I’m sorry.”  
  
Jon leaned slightly away from Martin to have room to frown up at him. “It’s not your fault.”  
  
“No, but I’m still sorry. Do you want me to…” Martin hesitated, took a breath, “be here with you when you read them?”   
  
Jon shook his head at once. “No. No, no. It’s fine. I know you don’t like listening to me recording them. I might just need you repeating what you say before I… ah, _tune back in_ , so to say.”  
  
Martin readied himself to argue, insisting that it had started to take more than simply repeating himself to get Jon to snap out of it lately but Jon cut him off with a smile, “Thank you for offering though. It… It means a lot.”  
  
And how was Martin supposed to argue with him after that?


	3. Chapter 3

Martin hummed as he flipped one of the eggs in the pan, smiling at Jon as he came up beside him and leaned against his side. Jon sneaked an arm around Martin’s waist and asked, “You need any help with that?”  
  
Martin shook his head. “No, I’m good. You could maybe set the table?”  
  
Jon smiled back, nodded, and let go of Martin only to take a staggering step to the side, catching himself on the counter. Martin immediately dropped the spatula, ignoring the way the oil splattered over the bench as he quickly reached out to steady him. “Are you okay?”  
  
Jon took a breath before answering, “I’m fine.”  
  
Martin hesitated a second before asking, “Hungry?” In an only slightly forced cheery tone of voice.  
  
Jon hummed and Martin decided to take that as an affirmation.  
  
“Good thing we’re making lunch?” Martin hedged and winced as Jon simply looked guilty. “Sorry.”  
  
After the last time when Martin had barely been able to bring Jon out of the statement he had been reading they had both been hesitant for him to read another. But they could only wait for so long.  
  
“Maybe you should sit down.”  
  
Jon held up a hand to stop him. “I just—I just need a minute.”  
  
“Are you sure?”  
  
Jon nodded before bowing his head and taking a couple of deep breaths. Martin hurried over to the kitchen table and pulled out one of the statements from the box.  
  
It couldn’t go much worse than last time.  
  
Jon shook his head. “No.”  
  
Martin stopped with the statement held in front of him, taken aback by the force in Jon’s voice. “But you can’t—”  
  
Jon interrupted him with another “No,” as he straightened up and resolutely pulled out the drawer and grabbed some cutlery. He sent Martin an apologetic smile before saying, in a soft voice, “The eggs are burning.”  
  
Martin heaved a sigh and placed a tentative hand on Jon’s shoulder, not willing to let this go just yet. “I don’t care.”  
  
“I do.” Jon met his eyes with a determined look and Martin could almost overlook the way his hands shook around the cutlery. “Come on, let’s eat.”  
  
“Jon—”  
  
“Please?” And, damn it, Martin recognized that tone of voice for what it was. He had heard it often enough over the years. Fear.  
  
He hesitantly placed the statement back into the box and moved back over to the pan and turned the heat off, keeping half an eye on Jon’s slow movements as he set the table.  
  
Martin frowned down at the slightly burned eggs, but decided against throwing them away. In practice he knew that the food was only for him. Jon didn’t really need it, as much as he tried to keep up appearances in front of Martin, and no matter how much Martin liked seeing Jon eat from time to time—a promise of something more normal in their future that neither of them were willing to give up on—he knew that it wouldn’t help with the hunger that made Jon shake as he set out the glasses.  
  
Martin pushed those thoughts away as he plated the eggs. They would figure it out, together, and they _would not_ allow it to destroy the precious moments they had started to manage to carve out for themselves.  
  
They ate while talking about the new book Jon had been reading, the sweater Martin had started to knit, and what they would buy on their next trip down to the village.  
  
It was domestic and pleasant and _wonderful_.  
  
And like all things good, it had to end eventually. Since Martin had cooked Jon insisted on doing the dishes even though Martin argued that frying eggs was hardly cooking.  
  
“Well, and cleaning off two plates is hardly washing up.” Jon smirked at him, clearly pleased at his argument and Martin laughed.  
  
“There’s just no winning with you, is there?”  
  
Jon’s smile spread over his whole face as he took Martins plate and stacked it on top of his own. “Glad you finally realized.”  
  
Martin couldn’t keep an answering smile from blooming on his own face, watching as Jon pushed to get up from the chair. And then fell back down with a huff. Martin felt his smile fall into a frown as he took in Jon’s pale face. “Alright?”  
  
Jon let out a frustrated groan as he abandoned the plates to bury his head in his arms. “No.”  
  
Martin leaned over to place a reassuring hand on Jon’s shoulder, keeping his voice soft and light as he said, “Come on, you should still read a statement.”  
  
They were working on finding a way for Jon to stop being dependent on them, but they weren’t there yet. And neither of them would be able to think up solutions if he starved himself.  
  
Jon turned his head to glance up at Martin and asked in a small voice, “What if I can’t… stop again?”  
  
And that was the problem, wasn’t it? They both knew that they hadn’t really had any choice in what happened to them ever since they started working at the Institute, but Jon’s inability to control himself while reading statements was a very real and noticeable manifestation of that powerlessness. But, sadly, it didn’t make it any less necessary. For now.  
  
“Well, if I’m not here to disturb you then you don’t have a reason to stop reading, right? You’ve always been able to stop at the end of them.” He went for a reassuring smile and felt relief when Jon seemed to relax a bit.  
  
“That’s true.” He sat back up and even managed a small smile. “Yeah, you’re right.”  
  
“Well!” Martin stood up. “I’ll go on a walk and then we can take care of the dishes together.” He leaned down and planted a kiss on Jon’s cheek. “Won’t be long.”  
  
“Let me know if you see any good cows,” Jon said as the small smile on his face spread wide and Martin might have melted a bit at that.  
  
He beamed back as he left the room, “ _Obviously_ I’m going to tell you if I see any good cows.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Martin took a deep breath as he stepped out of the door. The fresh air was tinged with rain and the wind was as strong as ever, but he smiled at the warm memory of Jon inside as he took off down the small path. They would be okay.  
  
The cloudy sky seemed to darken with every step he took, so he pulled his coat tighter around himself and pushed on. He had said that he was going to go for a walk, so he was going to go for a walk. And then they would go back to being blessedly domestic.  
  
A sudden booming thunder and a few drops of rain wiped the smile off his face but wasn’t enough to stop him. The last couple of weeks had been littered with thunderstorms and he had long since accepted that if he allowed them to scare him into staying inside then he would never leave the cottage.  
  
The cold seeped into his hands and feet as another bolt of lightning flashed across the sky and Martin heave a quiet sigh. He slowed down to glance over his shoulder, looking back at the cabin and taking in the way the lights were shining warm and inviting in the windows.  
  
Without him.  
  
He didn’t need to be in there, drag in the cold and the wet while Jon was busy. Then maybe Jon wouldn’t realize what a burden he was. Maybe he would stay with him a little longer. If he could just get down to the big road, just keep away a little longer, if he could just keep his word and not bother Jon while he was reading, just leave him alo—  
  
Martin stopped dead.  
  
“Nope! Not doing this again!” He turned around with a huff and started stomping his way back towards the cabin. He would not stay out in the cold. He had promised Jon not to stay by himself when his thoughts turned back to the Lonely. And if he was supposed to be able to help Jon with the whole being-dependent-on-statements-problem, then he had to try and let Jon help him in turn.  
  
And besides, he could wait until after Jon was done with his statement before he bothered him, that way he wouldn’t get in the way. If he was lucky and Jon felt like he was up to it after finishing his statement then maybe they could take a walk together and look at the cows. The thought brought a small smile to Martin’s face. Yet another flash of lightning made him hurry his steps—maybe they could wait until the weather had let up a bit.  
  
Martin arrived at the door just as the wind picked up even more; the lightning now flashing almost constantly and the rain having transformed into a right downpour. He thanked whatever or whoever might be listening that he had decided to turn around and if his luck held out then maybe Jon was already finished with his statement and he wouldn’t have to interrupt him.  
  
He slowly and carefully opened the old door, wincing at the creek it made and—of course. Of course Jon wasn’t done. Martin fought down the immediate impulse to back out and wait outside, or better yet; go on his walk like he had said he would. Just as long as he didn’t have to disturb Jon, didn’t need to ruin something, maybe he should just—  
  
Martin squared his shoulders and did his best to push down the thoughts at the same time as he pushed the door open wide enough for him to step inside. He would wait in the living room. He wouldn’t have to freeze to death and he wouldn’t bother Jon. It wasn’t like Jon was fully aware of what was going on around him when he read a statement anyway, so it was probably fine.  
  
Martin inched off his shoes and tried his very best not to listen to whatever Jon was saying. He understood that the statements were a necessity—at least for now—but that didn’t mean that he wanted to hear all the horrible things that Jon narrated with almost unsettling fervor.  
  
Despite his efforts he still couldn’t escape hearing the mumbling from inside the kitchen as he shuffled past the door and Martin found himself frowning as he realized that there was something in Jon’s voice that sounded… off. Martin shook his head and reminded himself that Jon sometimes managed to sound almost like a different person when he really got into a statement. It was weird but hardly anything new.  
  
It was just—There was something about the flow of this one that made the hairs on the back of Martin’s neck stand on end. Something familiar.  
  
It almost made him wish he hadn’t gone back inside.  
  
He shook his head and tried to think of something to do to distract himself. That was when he heard it.  
  
Jon said Martin’s name in that same eerily familiar tone that he couldn’t really place and he found his attention snapping to whatever it was that Jon was saying, blood turning to ice in his veins.  
  
“How is Martin, by the way? He looks well. You will keep an eye on him when all this is over, won’t you? He’s earned that.  
  
And there, I think, we are brought just about up to date. I have enjoyed our little trip down memory lane, but past here lies only impatience.”  
  
Martin swallowed down his hesitation and opened the door to the kitchen with a hesitant, “Jon?”  
  
Jon didn’t answer. He didn’t look up. And he didn’t stop reading.  
  
“You are prepared. You are ready. You are marked. The power of the Ceaseless Watcher flows through you, and the time of our victory is here.  
  
Don’t worry, John. You’ll get used to it here, in the world that we have made.”  
  
Something in Martin’s stomach coiled up tight at this and he stepped closer. This didn’t feel like the other instances where Jon had gotten stuck in a statement, and it was not until a flash of lightning illuminated Jon’s face that he saw why; there were tear tracks running down his cheeks. His terrified eyes clashed sickeningly with his calm and even voice.  
  
Martin froze in the doorway as his eyes took in the trail of blood running over his chin from his mouth where it looked like Jon had bitten his lip, Or, considering the amount of blood, tried to forcefully keep his mouth shut by biting his own lips. Martin’s horrified gaze followed the trail of blood down to his throat where it joined several red lines; as if someone had scratched at him to try and get him to stop reading. A second later he saw the matching red on Jon’s fingertips and paled as he realized that Jon had tried to make _himself_ stop.  
  
Then Jon _laughed_ and with a start Martin suddenly recognizes who he sounded like.  
  
Of course Jonah would manage to find them even here. Of course he would destroy what little peace they had managed to find.  
  
Anger filled Martin up, hot and cloying; finally breaking him from his place in the doorway. He crossed the room in a few steps just as Jon said, in that horribly familiar and smug voice, “Repeat after me.”  
  
“Jon!” Martin instinctively grabbed the paper to rip it out of Jon’s shaking hands, but Jon’s grip was too strong and he only managed to rip off a small part of the paper on top. Jon didn’t even stutter, but continued to read on in a voice that now seemed to be almost chanting.  
  
“You who watch and know and understand none. You who listen and hear and will not comprehend. You who wait and wait and drink in all that is not yours by right.  
  
Come to us in your wholeness.”  
  
The storm outside seemed to—impossibly—intensify even more, the windows rattling in their frames.  
  
“Jon, stop!”  
  
“Come to us in your perfection.”  
  
Martin shoved his hands over the paper to try and cover what he was reading but Jon continued on, not making any indication that Martin was blocking his sight.  
  
The further this went on the more Jon’s words seemed to vibrate the very air around them and now Martin was sure that he wasn’t imagining the storm, or whatever it was, outside getting worse by the second. He grabbed Jon’s shoulders and shook him hard, but Jon simply continued to read, his bleeding lips forming words, volume rising, “Bring all that is fear and all that is terror and all that is the awful dread—”  
  
Martin debated trying to cover up Jon’s eyes but as he looked up at Jon’s face he froze. Jon was _looking back_. He had somehow managed to tear his eyes away from the page and the sheer panic and fear in those eyes scared Martin more than all the ominous chanting combined. He had to make this stop _. Now.  
_  
Martin desperately cast around for something he could use to stop this, to stop Jon. _Anything._ Another flash of lightning, impossibly close, lit up the room and Martin’s eyes landed on the lighter. Jon’s lighter was lying on the table, perfectly within Martin’s reach.  
  
Martin sucked in a deep breath and scrabbled to get a hold of it, hands shaking bad enough that he couldn’t get the _damn thing_ to light up. He tried again, and again and _again_ as he did his best not to listen to Jon as he continued on in an almost ecstatic voice. He shouted in triumph as the small flame suddenly appeared. He wasted no time in sticking the lighter to the papers in Jon’s hands, right in the middle.  
  
The flames spread fast, the paper curling up and turning to ash and Martin snatched his hands back. His panicked mind somehow managed to remember the small piece he had managed to tear off earlier and grabbed it and threw it at the quickly disappearing papers, not willing to chance any part of whatever had been written to remain whole.  
  
That was when he noticed that Jon didn’t let the papers go. He didn’t even seem to notice the fire. Martin panicked as he grabbed Jon’s wrists, shaking them, “Jon! Let go!”  
  
He finally got a reaction. It almost made him wish he hadn’t.  
  
Jon’s voice raised in volume; transforming from the almost possessed chanting into a low scream that increased in volume as the flames spread.  
  
“Let it go! Please!”  
  
The scream morphed into a sound eerily reminiscent of a rewinding tape. The whole time, Jon’s face was devoid of expression, a smothering forceful indifference as he screamed and screamed and _screamed_.  
  
“Fuck, fuck, fuck. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He had fucked up. He had made it worse and now Jon was paying for it. Martin tried to put the fire out as it ate into the last of the paper as well as Jon’s fingers, which blistered and turned red.  
  
Jon still didn’t move, the awful _awful_ sound coming from his throat changed into something eerily similar to pure static and Martin winced at the sound of it, unconsciously raising his hands to cover his ears.  
  
Suddenly, the whole ground shook and Martin had a moment of panic as he thought he had been too late to stop whatever it was that had been happening. He stumbled towards the window and caught sight of something incomprehensibly big in the sky, but before he had time to process what he was seeing, it was gone, accompanied by a sudden sound reminiscent of booming thunder only louder, more encompassing, and suddenly an emptiness settled over them—an emptiness which highlighted how very _full_ the moment before it had been. Of what, Martin wasn’t sure, but desperately sucked in a breath of air as he reeled in the sudden freeing silence of it all.  
  
 _Silence_.  
  
Martin whipped back around to face Jon and found him still sitting at the table, fingers frozen around the few flakes of ashes that remained of the statement. Completely motionless.  
  
“Jon?”  
  
The tape recorder clicked off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I try to write something a bit more lighthearted and then I always end up back here anyway... smh.
> 
> Well, I hope you liked it! There will be one more chapter of this, so I hope you stick around until then :) I would love to hear what you think so far, it really helps to motivate me!
> 
> For now, I wish you a nice weekend. Wherever you are :)


	4. Chapter 4

“Jon?”  
  
Jon simply stared, seemingly at the same spot that the statement had previously occupied. Martin reached out a hesitant hand towards him, unsure whether he should touch him or not. “Jon? Can you hear me?”  
  
He didn’t get an answer and Martin carefully wiped at the blood that had trailed down Jon’s chin, trying to focus on the way his hand shook and not on the way the blood had already been smudged by Jon’s own tears.  
  
Martin leaned forward as he tried to catch his eye—unsuccessfully—only to feel the dread reach new, dizzying, heights as he came to a sudden realization.  
  
Jon wasn’t breathing.  
  
“Shit.” Martin snatched his hand back. “Shit, damn, okay.” Should he try and lower him to the floor? He should do CPR right? Did that apply to this situation? What even _was_ this situation?  
  
“Okay, okay, okay.” Martin desperately tried to force down his rising panic as he pressed a shaking hand right under Jon’s chin, feeling for a pulse. He couldn’t bite back the sob that escaped him as he realized that his hands were shaking too badly for him to feel anything at all. What if Jon was already _dead_? And he had just been standing here, useless. Worse than useless, he had been the one to—  
  
No. No, he couldn’t afford to think like that right now. Jon needed him. Besides, Jon had survived worse things than this; he wouldn’t die from a statement—regardless of who it was from. That would just be _too_ cruel. Martin slapped himself on the cheek, the sting helping to bring his mind back from the edge of panic once more. “Focus Martin!”  
  
He still had no idea what to do, but he figured that a good start would be to get Jon lying down—it felt wrong leaving him sitting here and his scrambled mind insisted that it was important to get him lying down so he could try and free his airways. It probably didn’t apply to the current situation, but it was all he had to go on at the moment, so Martin grabbed a hold of Jon’s arms as carefully as he could and tried not to dwell on the rigidity of the other man.  
  
However, as soon as Martin moved him Jon’s whole body spasmed violently and it was only Martin’s hands on his arms that kept him from getting to the floor in the fast and painful way. Martin did his best to keep his hold on him as he lowered him the rest of the way to the floor as carefully as he possibly could before kneeling beside him. “Jon?”  
  
His momentary relief at seeing Jon move—he was alive after all!—was quickly dashed when Jon screwed his eyes shut as his whole body shuddered, and then started to shake.  
  
"Fuck! What—" Martin was at a loss for what to do and he was grabbing Jon’s arms hard enough at this point that he was sure it must hurt, but Jon didn't say anything. He still didn't _say anything_.  
  
He still let up on his grip, trying instead to cushion Jon’s head so it didn’t hit against the floor. And after that, he did the only thing he could think of; he grabbed Jon’s hand.  
  
After what felt like an eternity, Jon finally stilled before sucking in a deep breath and Martin could have cried with relief. But then Jon coughed, a small whimper escaping him. And then he gagged.  
  
Martin hurriedly helped Jon up into a sitting position, and he immediately bent double as he retched again. Martin expected vomit; he _did not_ expect the ink black liquid that poured from Jon’s lips.  
  
“Oh god.” Martin reared back instinctually, hands leaving Jon’s shoulders for a second as he felt frustrated tears sting his eyes; the feeling of utter powerlessness overwhelming him as he could do nothing but watch as Jon suffered.  
  
No. He could do _something_. He could make sure Jon knew he wasn't alone.  
  
Martin shuffled forward again and carefully pulled Jon’s hair away from his face, gathering it at his back and revealing his ashen face; streaked through with new tears that Martin realized with a start were just as dark as whatever it was that Jon was currently throwing up. He only hesitated a second before reaching out with his other hand to grab one of Jon’s, running his thumb over the knuckles in what he hoped to be a soothing gesture and ignoring the way Jon’s fingers spasmed around his own. He let whatever comforting words he could come up with pour from his lips, speaking through his own tears, "It's going to be fine. You're okay. I'm here. You're doing so well."  
  
Jon was struggling for breath between his heaving and Martin felt his own voice getting smothered by the lump in his throat and he swallowed it down before continuing, "You’re okay. Come on Jon. Please."  
  
And maybe whatever had chosen to torment them actually listened for once, because Jon finally stopped; hanging limply over his own knees as he panted heavily for breath.  
  
Martin let the silence hang for a second, but Jon stayed hunched over as he sucked in desperate mouthfuls of air, before he dared to break it with a hesitant "Jon?" as he squeezes his hand.  
  
Jon looked up at this and the movement dislodged several pieces of hair from Martin’s careful grip and they framed his face streaked with black and haunted eyes in a way that made Martin’s heart shatter all over again. “Oh, _Jon_. Please, talk to me.”  
  
Jon frowned and opened his mouth, but no sound escaped him.  
  
Martin was rapidly losing the battle with the lump in his throat. “I’m so sorry.” He swallowed. “Please.”  
  
Jon blinked slowly, releasing a few more black tears, and then Martin felt Jon’s hand tighten against his own before he closed his mouth, swallowed, and then tried again, “M—Martin?”  
  
His voice was raspy and weak, but _there_.  
  
“Oh thank goodness,” Martin breathed out as he sank down next to Jon; the feeling of relief was almost _painful_.  
  
He took a deep breath to steady himself before he slowly pulled Jon towards him, giving him time to protest or pull away if he hurt or it was too much; but Jon lifted his shaking arms and grabbed a hold of Martin's back with clear desperation. Jon took a shuddering breath and Martin’s frail resolve to be as careful as possible shattered. He pulled Jon flush against him, ignoring the wet blackness clinging to Jon, and wrapped him up in as tight a hug as he dared—trying to hold the other together with his bare arms. “Hey, it's okay. You're okay."  
  
Jon took another shuddering breath, and then he broke. His next exhale was a stuttering sob.  
  
"Oh, Jon. I'm here. It's okay, it's okay." He knew it wasn't, but what could he do except trying to speak it into existence?  
  
Even as he said it, he felt his own tears coming back. He did his best to swallow them down, but Jon was moving, talking, _breathing_ , and it was all he could do to hold Jon close as they both broke down.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
They stayed like that on the floor for a long time. It was only when both their tears had started to dry up, and Jon’s had turned back into something approaching the clear liquid they were supposed to be, that Martin dared to break the silence again. But he needed to hear Jon’s voice to try and convince himself that they would be fine.  
  
“Hey, you… You doing okay?” Martin felt foolish the second the question left his mouth. _Of course_ he wasn’t okay. How could he be, after something like this?  
  
Jon burrowed a bit closer to Martin and mumbled, in a voice that was hoarse enough to sound painful, “I think so. Better now.”  
  
“Well, I’m glad.” Considering what had just happened, that wasn’t nearly as reassuring as Jon might think, but he kept that thought to himself.  
  
Jon was silent for a few seconds before speaking again, “I—I’m…”  
  
Martin uttered an encouraging hum as he tightened his arms around him.  
  
He felt Jon take a breath that was _almost_ steady before trying again, “I just—I tried to stop reading and I couldn’t, I—” Martin could feel Jon start to shake against him and shushed him as he rubbed his back in an attempt to sooth him, not wanting Jon to get too worked up. He didn’t think either one of them could handle that right now.   
  
Jon swallowed, but continued, “I really tried. To stop. I promise. I didn’t know what to do, I just—”  
  
“I believe you.” The fear in Jon’s eyes and the obvious way he had tried to make himself stop left no room for doubt in Martin’s mind. _Speak it into existence._ “It’s okay. It’s over.”  
  
“He—He tried to end the world.” Jon took a deep breath, voice still hoarse but seemingly determined to get whatever it was off his chest. “Through me. _Christ_ , I almost…”  
  
“You didn’t,” Martin said decisively. “He lost.”  
  
Jon let out his breath in a shaky exhale. “He did, didn’t he?” And there was wonder in his voice.  
  
Jon curled impossibly closer to him, tucking his head under Martin’s chin. “Thank you.” He sounded impossibly tired. “For stopping me.”  
  
Martin swallowed heavily, Jon’s gratitude curdling like sour milk in his stomach. Before he could fully think it through, he blurted out, “No. I’m sorry.”  
  
“For what?” Jon mumbled against Martin’s sweater.  
  
“I hurt you. I thought—I thought I could burn it, like we did before to distract Elias, but I didn’t think it would—”  
  
Jon made an attempt at sitting up, but only made it a couple of centimeters before falling back against him, but he did manage a slightly stronger voice as he cut him off, “No, no, no. Without you… I don’t think I would have been able to stop. So, thank you.”  
  
Martin felt tears sting his eyes as his throat closed back up, but he still managed to force out a, “I don’t deserve that.”  
  
“You do.” Jon said it with such conviction that Martin didn’t find it himself to argue, instead settling back against Jon and allowing the comfort of simply holding the other to wash over him—chasing away the sorrow and the fear for a blessed second.  
  
That was, until Jon’s close proximity made Martin aware of a suspicious heat radiating from the other. He carefully extracted one arm from their embrace—ignoring Jon’s whine in protest—and placed it on Jon’s forehead. He tutted disapprovingly. “You have a fever.” Not surprising, but slightly concerning nonetheless.  
  
“It’s fine.” The way he almost slurred the words did nothing to convince Martin.  
  
“I know you’re not fine. Let’s move to the bed, alright? It would do us both some good to get off this cold floor.”  
  
Jon made a noncommittal sound but made no further indication that he had heard him.  
  
Martin chuckled and adjusted his grip on Jon so that one arm was under his legs, “I guess that means you’re getting carried, huh?”  
  
He waited to give Jon a chance to protest but when no complaint came he straightened up, brining Jon with him.  
  
He took a careful step over the black pool of ink staining the floor and looked down at Jon as he made a quiet sound of discontentment; afraid that his movements had been painful in some way.  
  
But Jon was frowning down at the floor, rasping out, “We’ll have to ask for Daisy’s forgiveness. I don’t think that stain is going to come out.”  
  
Martin couldn’t hold back a snort as he looked down at the ridiculous man in his arms. “I really don’t think she’ll mind.”  
  
Jon gave him a disbelieving look, but didn’t respond and Martin stumbled the rest of the way to the bedroom and did his best to put Jon down gently on the edge of the mattress. He seemed unwilling to relinquish his hold on Martin’s sweater, and when Martin went to carefully loosen his hands he frowned at the blistering red on Jon’s fingers. That must be hurting something awful, but Jon didn’t seem to care as he sank back on the bed with a sigh of relief, finally let go of Martin.  
  
“Hey,” Martin said in a gentle voice, “Let me see your hands.”  
  
“Hm?” Jon hummed as he closed his eyes, but he allowed Martin to take his hands and turn them over carefully.  
  
Martin winced at the sight; both hands were adorned with burns, several of which were covered in soot as well. “Your fingers, they—they haven’t healed up.”  
  
Jon slowly opened his eyes and moved his hands so he could see them, almost looking surprised as he turned his hands over to reveal the burns. “No, they haven’t.”  
  
“Is that not a thing you can do anymore? Heal?” It was the one good thing that had come out of this, as far as Martin was concerned.  
  
Jon shrugged and smiled up at him, and the flush on his cheeks told him that the fever might be a bit worse than he had thought. It still didn’t prepare him for Jon’s sincere, “Eh, both hands match now.”  
  
“That’s not funny,” Martin said even as he automatically returned Jon’s smile. “Let me wrap them up for you.”  
  
“Okay. Thank you.” Jon said it with such sincerity that Martin felt himself blush. He would take care of Jon’s hands, and then he would try and treat his fever.  
  
 _This_ he knew how to do. This was one concrete thing he could do to make things better.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading the whole thing! Hopefully you found it somewhat entertaining!
> 
> I would love to hear you thoughts :)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> I would love to hear what you think so far :) And I hope you're having a great day!


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